Lofty Expectations
by R J Lupin's Kat
Summary: A study of Mary and Marshall's relationship progression as viewed through each room of Marshall's Loft from 'Seven Year Hitch.' Mary-Marshall 'Month of Mayhem' submission. One-shot. Mary/Marshall


**Disclaimer: **Do not approach the fangirl. Or the author. Or the intellectual property rights owner of _In Plain Sight_. I got the first two covered; that last one? Ain't mine.

**Author's Note:** Written for Mary_Marshall Month of Mayhem. Topic chosen because I know how much Tilley_Girl adores Marshall's Loft in _Seven Year Hitch_. This one's for you, Tilley. [And no, the events here do not foreshadow SYH's future… ;~) ]

As I'm not going to go into too much detail on how the loft is set up, feel free to check out the floor plan here (take out the gratuitous spaces, because ffn hates links):

ht tp:/ /pics. Livejo urnal. com/ rj(underscore)_lupins(underscore)_kat/ pic/0004746k

**-o-o-o-0-o-o-o-**

**Lofty Expectations**

_**a study of Mary and Marshall's relationship progression from the point of view of each room of his loft**_

The 40's era brick and mortar five-story was once a wool and pelts warehouse and factory, closed in the mid-seventies as cotton grew in popularity, a crop not heavily grown in central New Mexico. More was the pity. After a succession of failed ventures and bankrupt owners, the building slowly fell into a shell of itself. Disrepair and a haunting emptiness only a great construction of one-time mighty business could exude, it remained structurally sound only by quality original construction and a foreclosure bank's financial interest.

Still, few industries had purpose for an old, dilapidated facility on the outskirts of Albuquerque. Too far from the campuses of UNM for dorms; too small for big industry, too large for small; too off the beaten track for offices; too little parking for apartments. So when mortgage crises began to creep up and investments fell, a desperate financial institution could be mighty appreciative of an individual willing to take an unmarketable property off their hands. So much so they just might be willing to sell it for little more than a heavily depreciated value and a solid business plan. And with little more than well-documented statistics, charts, future value estimations, Marshall Mann purchased the warehouse on the outer rim of Albuquerque, where he was just beginning his new career direction as a US Deputy Inspector Marshal of the Witness Security Division.

Years, countless hours of personal and bartered labor and materials later, and the four full lower floors were shaped into eight artistic, unique lofts, each leased for sizable amounts, enough for solid upkeep and taxes. But the top floor took longer to complete – in fact, projects still lay about, unfinished – but was a labor of love for the marshal, for it was his home. And yet, as intriguing as each hand-placed board, tile, carved cabinet and lain brick was, more curious were the tales each room could tell, every one witness to the most amazing of all renovations: the transformation of a friendship into…

Well, you'll see.

**Foyer**

"My God, Marshall; seriously? Top floor?" She wheezed the last, the tall blonde shifting her armload of weighted cardboard box with a raised knee. "No wonder you tip delivery drivers. Only way they're not gonna hock one all over your Moo Goo Gai Pan."

Marshall, ever unflappable, merely cocked a crooked smile and deposited his own cargo on the floor in order to relieve her of her burden.

"The uppermost floor _does_ have its aesthetic and practical advantages. If you'd like to come in…" His offer trailed off with hope lacing the tone, but already his new partner of seven weeks was tossing her head.

"I still have to finish unpacking and concoct some damn creative excuse why my mother shouldn't come to visit with baby sis Brandi in tow. God, I hate relatives," she elaborated, eye roll demonstrative where words lacked luster. "They act like they're supposed to associate with you."

"Contrary to your highly exercised belief, most of the world shares the ideal desire to have their families –"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she cut him off, already walking back toward the stairwell. "Next time you want me to help you transport shit, remind me to tell you '_hell_ no.'"

She swept her hand to encompass the foyer. "And tell your landlord to fix the elevator and to do something with all this… _white._ Crappy view through crappy old, paned windows. Hauling your ass up four flights of stairs, and not even a skyline view," she groused, then busted through the door and down the stairs.

Marshall smiled, watching her leave with great contemplation. Seventeen days later the elevator opposite the stairwell opened its caged doors, a mural of the nighttime Albuquerque skyline wrapping the entire upper, inner car.

**Bath – East**

"Jesus, Marshall; try to leave some flesh, will you?" She hissed her admonishment, yet made no attempt to pull the raw, perforated flesh back. She trusted him.

"We have to get all the gravel and particulates out, else you'll be susceptible to infection," Marshall patiently explained, all the while scrubbing Mary's inner forearm as lightly as possible under the running bath tap. The _incident_ had happened only blocks away, luckily; Mary had left no doubts as to her aversion to the hospital. In the four months they'd known each other, it had taken threat of white lab coats to get her into his home.

Mary looked away, studied the natural stone tile walls and floors, the thick burgundy bath towels, the tiny scar on the back of her partner's neck, just below his hairline. Bit her lower lip, scrunched her face against the pain, but held still. Offered her well-being into his strong, oddly gentle hands.

She trusted him.

**Dining Room **

Maps and blueprints littered the scrubbed pine tabletop, wrought iron candlesticks holding down curling edges. Both marshals stood hunched, arms locked in stilted support in study.

"If we pull her out here," Mary suggested, tracing a path across cobalt etchings on onionskin, "then we can –" Suddenly she stopped, frowning. "No, wait; that's not right. Something's off here…"

Marshall leaned closer over her shoulder, nudging away recognition of scent familiar and intoxicating. This wasn't the time.

"If our CI is accurate," he drawled slowly, eyes narrowing, "then from this angle, the threat –"

"– can't get a bead –"

"– without full-on exposure –"

"– forcing our hand –"

"– thus negating the hit, unless –"

"– unless…"

Abruptly their eyes met, unspoken communication passed in three-quarters of a second.

"_The boyfriend's the target_." In unison.

At that moment, Mary Shannon smiled. Maybe this partnership _would_ last out a year.

**Master Bath**

His place was the closest opportunity, really, in which she could change in peace without throwing down a dozen brown-paper hand towels on the floor. By no means a germaphobe, neither was Mary keen to put bare feet to public restroom tile. Besides; she had only seventeen minutes to throw on the newly purchased sundress and battle with lazy hair before meeting Raph at some athletic shindig. Only its promise of smoked ribs swayed her resistance to the matter.

Fourteen and a half. Damn, time ticks with adrenaline when shucking denim for –

Shit. Stubbly legs. Damn it, she'd forgotten to shave and no hose were handy to disguise their prickly selves.

Glancing about, Mary flicked open a section of the cornered cabinetry aside the double vanity mirror. _Why not?_ she reasoned. Partners share things, right?

Never once did it cross Mary Shannon's mind how invasive rummaging through Marshall's medicine cabinet would normally be perceived. Nor did it once flitter through her thoughts how intimate she had become with her partner of two years when she stumbled upon his quality razor… and promptly borrowed it.

Come to think of it, her teeth could use a quick brush, as well…

**Utility Room**

She'd felt sorry for him. That was it. After all, she'd been doing her own laundry at home, trying to put away clothes while scarffing down a pastrami on rye with spicy brown. It was in that moment she'd figured out one-handed folding sucked like a Hoover on steroids.

It was a Sunday; what else was she doing?

True, her own household chores and family and not-really-boyfriend had supposed dibs on her time and energies today, but honestly she didn't feel like dealing with their craptastic presence on her one day off this week. Besides, didn't she owe Marshall? He'd protested when she'd phoned, but eventually gave in and allowed her to come in and fold his laundry. Wash and dry he could handle on his own, she'd insisted. She wasn't his maid, after all. Yet beneath said qualifications of her altruistic offer, Mary felt the guilt of Marshall's current predicament. Folding his laundry – it was therapy.

"You know you don't have to do this?" Half question, more a reminder of understanding. Mary turned to Marshall, her partner of three years leaning lightly against the doorframe. Worn red tee, black sling supporting the reminder of a moment only eight days prior when she had nearly lost him. Forever. Mary didn't want to think about that.

"Either stand there quietly and shut the hell up and let me handle this," she retorted, "or trot your happy ass back to the couch and watch _Star Trek_, Red Shirt Guy."

"Fine," he simply stated, half grin perpetually ingrained on his face as he watched in silence her meticulous efforts. Until…

"What the hell are these?" Her brow was raised and voice its usual snark, but there was real interest as Mary held up with one finger a delicate pair of black lace panties. Marshall at least had the decency to blush.

"Yeah, uh… Rebecca may have left a few things from the other night."

Mary didn't want to think about _that_, either.

**Kitchen**

"I always loved the smell of anise baking." A soft hum of appreciation coincided the close-eyed contentment as she drew another deep breath. Marshall melted just that much more.

Loath to break the spell, his own voice matched hers, rising just above a whisper. Slow and soft and caressing like a fine summer breeze through heavy magnolia leaves.

"Fond memories?" He was hopeful; he wanted that childlike smile to remain indefinitely.

Fate was generous this night as they bagged cookies for their fourth Shop with a Cop bake sale. Christmas was in two weeks.

"_Yeeeah_…" She stretched the word in a sweet, sing-song invitation, drifting in tongue and mind to a time long ago filled with loving grandma, tagalong little sister, a tiny kitchen filled with laughter and love. And she swept Marshall along with her, this tightly held recollection a gift priceless to him.

This gift of herself.

**Master Bedroom**

Well-worn and faded, frayed around the edges. Both marshals looked upon the queen-sized bed to the aged quilt spread there, Mary's face softened.

"You've had this a while, haven't you?" Open, sincere. Her usual sarcasm lacking, attention still on the shades of blue and gray and black and white. Snippets of once bright, rich red broke up the hodge-podge pattern. She couldn't look away.

Marshall couldn't look away from _her_.

"Mom made this for me while she was still suffering morning sickness with me." Sheepish. Shy. "It was alternately a playground, a cozy… a magical cape, a toga… a fort, a refuge. Each piece came from a different family member's clothing; the design was based on an Impressionist painting she'd done in college." He shrugged, feeling inadequate to explain.

"You were going to be her artist," she commented quietly, still staring, eyes tracing colorful patterns across fabric full of more love – in creation, in use, in care – than in Mary's last two decades of life.

"No; no, you're not loaning me this quilt for this damn play I got myself into," she said, finally looking up at him as she shook her head vehemently. "No, Marshall; you're going to hold onto this and keep it safe, give it to your own children one day."

She turned back to the handmade art, voice low in a heartfelt display of conviction. "I'll make sure of that."

Marshall couldn't help the stunning warmth of giddy he felt at the liberal implications he took at her words. He'd like to think so…

**Spare Bedroom 2**

Pale half-light born of Sister Moon cascaded across troughs and crests, vague in illumination, hazing the stark emotions which – when viewed without filter – tore through the soul in their Red Death masques. But here, here in the solitude of a friend's refuge, this fierce creature lay in repose. Defenses tucked safely away.

Marshall watched this beauty before him from the doorway, her slumber deep now, the shadows caressing each plane of her expressive face with the tenderness of a lover. How he longed to do the same.

But it was to him she had come, angry with Raphael, hurt in ways she'd never admit by Jinx, exasperated with Brandi. And so her refuge had been him, and he'd welcomed her pain as his own, given her warm liquid forgetfulness, tucked her securely into another realm.

Catching sight of the myth-laced orb, Marshall could only offer his love's torments to the Man in the Moon, praying tonight her dreams would be ones of happier times.

**Bath – West**

"Here're some more towels –"

She'd left the door ajar, the water running; how was he supposed to know she was already _in_ the tub?

Mary's chuckle was throaty as she peered around the ever-growing foaming mounds, amusement sprinkled with a touch of… exhilaration? Her water heater going out was turning opportune for entertainment. He was looking at the walls, the floor, everywhere else. It was Treena's bachelorette party times ten. How could she pass up this fun?

"Seriously, Marshall, we have to get you past this shy virgin schoolboy stage." Mary grinned mischievously, propping her right foot cross-body upon the tub wall in an arch and sliding upright to allow semi-translucent bubbles to trickled down low on her breasts. Elbow levered onto the side, a slight twist to face him.

In an unguarded moment, he must have caught the movement and his eyes snapped back to her. Deer in the headlights. She could swear he'd ceased respiration. This only fueled Mary's humor.

"What's a'matter little boy?" she purred, enjoying far too thoroughly the flush spreading across his pained face. "See somethin' you wanna, huh?" Sole rubbed provocatively along the porcelain. "Somethin' you like?"

The transformation was subtle, and only later would she recognize it in recall. The shift of his brows upward softened, eyes still transfixed, but not of panic. Once aired, Marshall's voice was ethereal, reverent. Sincere. Sobering.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever known."

It was Mary's turn to stop breathing.

**Library**

The French doors at the corner-cut entrance lay spread in suggestion. A welcome back to the heart of the loft; a semi-closure from the rest of the world.

Weak amber light drifted to a fuzzy boundary, the gem-encrusted antique globe begging its luminance just beyond. Tomes tiny and leather and fabric and French… Curiosities scientific, historical, whimsical. Facets so multi as to put any diamond to shame. That was Marshall. But at his deepest point within, Marshall was simple, clear. One thing mattered: the root of his happiness.

Marshall shifted the heavy parchment to catch the light for any shine, an indication there was ink still damp. Seeing none, he folded the document, placing it temporarily in the top drawer until it could be notarized Monday morning by his attorney. Seeing Norman's third-designed bridge today on an unexpected escort detail had reminded the marshal a loose end he'd not considered in a long while.

Switching off the desk lamp, Marshall made his way from the library, sense of relief at the permanence of seven seconds' worth of penmanship. When the time came, by decrepit age or youthful duty, the vast physical representation of his life would go to the most important person ever in it.

**Living Room**

"Remind me why the hell we're doing this?"

Marshall's sigh was indulgent. To his credit, he never missed a step or sway. "Contrary to your personal rules of etiquette, you _will_ be expected to dance at your own wedding reception, Mare."

"I didn't last time." She grumbled this refute, but continued following his lead, Louis Armstrong denoting the beauty of the world in rich, dulcet tones. Her partner was more than competent an instructor.

"You _eloped_, Mare. There _was no_ reception," he countered into her hair. If his late night scruff irritated the soft skin of her forehead, she made no mention. His eyes closed in selfish pleasure. Her body felt so blissful against his, a completion fantastical to the senses. Indulgence into pretend couldn't be a fault; not now, not after everything. Not with the near future…

"I wouldn't have one _now_," she groused, leaning deeper into the crook of his neck and chest. "But for the irritating insistence of my mother… my sister… _Raph's_ mother… " She sighed resignedly. "But I'll do it."

"That's my girl," he praised, tightening his grip imperceptivity.

And she would be. For another 22 days, 17 hours, 32 minutes...

**Butler's Pantry **

Mary's fingers brushed the bottle of cooking red, accomplishing little more than pressing it even further back on the top shelf. One more desperate grasp for it was suddenly overrun by the warm calloused palm encompassing: the wine, her fingers…

The hand that had grasped lightly the curve of her hip to steady them both had not moved; the one above their heads stilled as well. Normalcy dictated a simple pulling of the bottle, return to the kitchen, continue the preparation of the surprise meal for Stan. But Mary held steady; Marshall only grazed fingertips conscientiously rhythmically over hers.

Awareness. Awakening.

Unsettling.

**Art Area **

Meticulous folds

Each crane a wish, her heart's joy

A gift from his own

**Exercise Area**

The corner home gym had never seen so much attention as it did this particular night, courting midnight with a ferocity born of heartbreak and anger and sexual frustration.

_Mary. Runs. Every. __**Time**__._ Each mental mantra emphasized by muscle contraction, battle against increasingly rising weight. Marshall could give no vocalization to the myriad of emotions crashing upon him in waves. Saved from losing her to Raphael, only to watch that jackass Mike Faber woo her with ridiculous ooze. Or some local cowboy who can give her possible satisfaction for a quick ride, nothing more than an itch temporarily scratched.

And yet he offered her messy – a beautiful, invasive, powerful sort of messy – and she'd run. He was only her best friend, after all. He was only the man so attuned to her moods, her very being, that they needed no words. He was only the man who had loved her for herself – her real self – for years.

He just. Couldn't. _Win_.

**Spare Bedroom 3**

"Thanks, Mary." Seth Mann took the duffle from his son's partner, tossing it nonchalantly on the bed in the corner bedroom, solitary in its distance from Marshall's. Were he his son, he'd probably read something symbolic in the choice offered. But Seth was only visiting for the weekend, there in reluctant support of Marshall's invitation to meet his 7-week long girlfriend. Marshall's mother had a prior commitment.

"So what's your opinion?" he said directly, never to waste time with soft introduction to a topic. Seth settled onto the bed, forearms across thighs as he contemplated the emerald wall and cream trim. "She what Marshall needs?"

Mary took surprising note of Seth's wording. "I dunno," she answered noncommittally. Shrugged. "Guess she's what he wants. _Seems_ to make him happy."

Seth met her gaze pointedly, and Mary backtracked, recalling to whom she was speaking. "Okay, then," she corrected, pursing her lips. "She's a nice girl, smart, makes him laugh. I think. I don't believe she challenges him enough, though, and forget being able to hold her own in a real knock down, drag out brawl – Oh; sorry."

But Seth only chuckled at Mary's digression.

"Mary, I won't pretend to even guess what Marshall needs. I'd always felt that he'd made a huge mistake going into the Service, that he wasn't tough enough to handle this sort of life. Wasn't cut out for its grit. I'd _wrongly_ thought that," he amended, a knowing look passing between them. "But you know him better than anyone. And I trust your judgment.

"Is this girl Lydia… is the one for my boy?"

Mary's gaze drifted, her hand caressing along the closet door frame. "You know, I always thought this room would make a nice nursery someday." She turned to face Seth. "Marshall will make a great father. He _should _be a father. Lydia can give him that."

Heavy silence drifted by as Seth studied the woman before him, a woman who'd earned the uncompromising respect and love of his so-very-complex grown child. Yes; yes he knew how Marshall felt about his partner, though he'd never given the slightest indication of this awareness. To broach the subject would accomplish anything but good.

"Fatherhood," he finally stated, "as wonderful as it is, is not a substitution for real love. When done right, it's a beautiful by-product of a friendship so deep and strong it can't be contained between two people."

Mary said nothing.

**Rooftop Garden**

The Shinto-styled gazebo was small, cozy, and offered a spectacular view of the Albuquerque skyline. This rooftop garden, in the quiet of the late night, bequeathed a stillness in which Mary could hide from the unspeakable pain of the day. Marshall sat beside her, each with their quarter-full tumbler of amber Coping in their hand. Bottle to Marshall's other side; silence between them, comfortable in its acceptance.

No one should see the massacre of children. No one should even conceive the idea of it. Their witnesses six months into the program. Wrong place, wrong time. Burger joint on a late summer midday, celebrating a son's confirmation. Other families joining in. Unaware of, unrelated to, but not unaffected by the pissed off meth addict bent on revenge over his girlfriend's infidelities.

And she happened to work at that tiny little burger joint, packed with after-Mass crowds full of chatter and happiness. People uncomprehending that a supposedly wronged boyfriend with a .45 and a full clip saw innocent by-standers as nothing greater than paint for his vicious canvas.

Mary roughly wiped the stray tear from its cheek path, tossed back the last of this third serving, set the glass down before she dropped it. Hands shook with emotions unable to be expressed. Blood that could not be erased from mental imagery. Where was good in this world? What was the point to what they did, if their efforts only brought the most innocent of their trusts to random slaughter?

"Because despite our greatest efforts," Marshall said softly, and Mary only then realized she'd spoken aloud, "we are still only human. We control very little in the grand scheme of things." His right hand was gently brushing strands of her hair from temple to ear, caresses soothing, unassuming.

"But we do make a difference, Mare," he continued, and she turned, looked him directly in those cobalt eyes unreadable in the darkness. "I'd like to think we score a few for Humanity each time we change a witness' life for the better. For each one saved, it restores my faith just a little bit more."

"But what about mine, Marshall?" she asked softly, a fear beneath unspoken. Desperate need to take control of something in life, to affect change, surged through her. Words came in angry, erratic demand.

"_Restore_ my faith, Marshall."

She swung around fully to stand before him. Voice rose.

"Make me believe in Good triumphing over Evil."

Slid onto the bench, a knee to either side of him. His hands went to her hips immediately for her balance. Her speech now tight, now desperate, now pleading.

"Show me there is still something in this world pure, without greed, without ulterior motives." One hand to his neck, fisting through his hair while the other searched the calming reassurance of his strong heartbeat.

"Make me believe."

Her breath whispered fervorantly across his lips, just a brief moment before her own did.

**Reading Nook**

"'… _The bitter clearness of the moments past midnight left the sky vulnerable in such a way as to greet her in sisterhood, a vast emptiness spread before, reflecting past, utterly still and devoid of life. Such were the breaths of memory. The bite a chill for the skin, physical nudge to the tangibility of unwelcome thoughts and the sharp night of the deserted viewing tower. Worn stone with aged points dug into soft, cold flesh, bathed only in flannel pyjamas, faded dressing gown and starlight…'._"

Marshall read with ebb and flow of a storyteller, lulling the woman stretched on the cushy chaise lounge between his legs, back against his chest. With one hand he held the worn binding of his tale; the other had edged its way in subterfuge to drape her lower abdomen, reflexive in small, light caresses. He would never admit aloud that tiny but insistent voice inside. The one that prayed for consequences of grief-induced acts of passion four weeks prior. The night neither spoke of, had treated as a UFO sighting, but had wonderfully haunted every free thought of his since.

Mary's eyes were heavy, the lilting timbre of Marshall's voice, the vibrations in his chest comforting. She absolutely _had_ to be more tired than she'd originally thought. No way in hell under normal circumstances would she have allowed Marshall to talk her into taking a break from their pre-escort strategy planning in order for him to read to her from a favorite novel. Even less feasible was her coherent acceptance when he'd shifted on the antique lounge from seated to stretched out, eventually one long-ass leg propped up behind her with the other foot on the ground… only to eventually, subtly (the sneaky bastard) pull her down, too, her bare feet propped at the other end.

She tried to ignore the gentle sweeps of his fingers across her jeans, drawing focus to concerns she'd harbored more than once lately. She could pretend all she wanted that that night with Marshall under a blanket of tale-telling stars had never happened, but she couldn't continue the façade he let her get away with if there was more to it than a driven decompression against the world's Armageddon.

She wasn't worried about an unforeseen pregnancy; two days ago eased that nagging worry. But during that time another had made itself known, one that manifested itself in the not-so-covert looks she caught peripherally, the additional little physical contacts, the underlying unsaid in their daily banter. The loving, protective caresses he was now bestowing upon a womb only she knew remained barren. All this came together to tell her that despite her self-proclaimed beliefs, it hadn't been just a physical release for Marshall. It hadn't been the culmination of years of lust finally being purged. His part in this – as it had always been – was of something much greater.

And what worried her more, when the threat had been real, the thought of fetal consequences hadn't been quite as repulsive when she'd thought of it being a part of Marshall.

Not _quite_ as repulsive.

Mary's eyes drifted shut, her partner's prose a balm to many a wound.

**Home Theatre**

"All right, Spielberg, let's get this show on the road. I've got copious amounts of alcohol to ingest, and you're holding up the process."

Marshall chuckled as Mary fidgeted, settling into her cocoon of fuzzy blankets with a hefty bowl of popcorn between them, the real melted butter and parmesan cheese wafting in the acoustically-designed room. Thick, plush, oversized couches made for comfortable viewing of the theatre screen before them, its wide screen now lit with the glowing still-images.

"Please, do not allow me to hinder your well-deserved consumption of the finest distilleries' greatest efforts," he remarked dryly, amusement coating each word with affection. Her reply was mumbled through a fistful of air-popped and around the mouth of a bottle of Guinness. He could only chuckle.

"Very well then," he gave in, dramatic sigh (he knew she rolled her eyes at that), and pointed the remote behind him at the ceiling-hung projector. "I present to you your premiere viewing of the greatest story never told…."

Mary could swear the opening credits were auditorily supported by a _Star Wars_ theme, but said nothing as she blindly rummaged through her secondary basket of snacks.

The plot covered just over two years, the soundtrack fitting, and Mary MST3K'd the entire film. Snarked over the sentimental crap of the wedding ceremony: offered slut commentary on the matron-of-honor, provided Foley sound effects for the reception and lurid details befitting the honeymoon travel sequences. Marshall was moved to tears later on when the hero and heroine experienced the birth of their first child a year past; of course, Mary's pinches and hard slaps on his leg during that scene might have had an influence to that reaction.

Marshall recited lines throughout by rote; Mary called him a Tyrannosaurus Geek and threw Skittles at him. Marshall smiled wistfully when the leads celebrated a rite of passage; Mary only cheered when there was gunfire.

By the time the ending credits were rolling to some obscure band's far-too-mind-burning song, Mary was giggling uncontrollably, the couch and floor were littered with enough sugar and fat to feed a third world nation, and Marshall's hair was in disarray from the number of times he'd run his fingers through in frustration.

"You know," he drawled, a stern look in the blue eyes she couldn't make out quite well. "I had thought you might actually _enjoy_ this, that you –"

"Oh, Marshall," Mary quipped, giving her own amused exasperated look in return. "If you want a sequel to this piece of artistic film footage of yours, you'd best get to work on the conception of child number two…"

Her invitation held in the air for only two breaths before Marshall's demeanor perked right up. "You know…" he said, moving quickly to pin her back on the seat of the couch, hands running up beneath her shirt in an attempt to pull it over her head. Only bare skin lay beneath. "We've never christened the theatre room…"

Her laughter enveloped him infectiously, but held a mischievous note he knew bore him ill. He was right.

"Sure thing, Don Juan," she purred, a deep breath agonizingly slow just for him. "Just as soon as you find my damn Gobstoppers."

Marshall tore apart the candy basket, shreds of weave strewn across the carpeted floor.


End file.
